


Fathers and Sons

by Heronfem



Series: Bad Company [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Broken Promises, M/M, Prostitution, Sacrifice, Shame, abuse of power by a commanding officer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John finds out about how Dean makes money, and a story is shared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fathers and Sons

It was only a matter of time, and Dean knew it. There wasn’t much by way of secrets that really managed to get past John, at least not secrets of his. For heaven’s sake, the man knew the day that he got back from stealing a single piece of _gum_ , it was like he was psychic. 

Still, all the same, it was forty kinds of terrifying when he stumbled back in, the cloying stench of sex and sweat clinging to him and nearly five hundred dollars in his pocket to find his dad sitting in a chair at the table, methodically cleaning a shotgun.

There was an extremely awkward moment where John just stared at him, taking in the haunted look on his face, the bulge of the money in his pocket, the faint stains on his jeans and the way his hands were scraped up from being shoved against a wall- how he’d stumbled in, unable to walk without wincing.

“What the hell, son?” he whispered, and Dean shrank back against the door.

Sam wisely took the opportunity to slip away from the couch and TV into the bedroom, closing the door. Dean thanked heavens for little miracles, and said shakily, “Dad, please, I can explain-”

John rose, in that slow, dangerous way of his, and Dean cringed. 

“Explain _what_?”

“We were hungry,” Dean whispered. “There was nothing left, I couldn’t get into any of the bars for pool, it was the only way-”

“ _There is always another way_!” John roared, furious. “Why the _fuck_ didn’t you call me!?”

“You were on a hunt, I couldn’t just _call_ ,” Dean snapped, crossing his arms protectively over his stomach. “Besides, it’s not like I’m much good for anything else these days, I don’t even hunt-”

Too late he noticed the bottle of whiskey, and too late he saw the fist before it connected solidly with his jaw. Sprawling on the floor, he let himself stay limp and small, as little a threat as possible. John stood over him, staring at him in conflicted horror.

He stayed still and unresponsive until John knelt down, gingerly touching his jaw.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. Dean closed his eyes, shuddering.

“Dad, please,” he said softly. “I just…I just want to clean up. And sleep. Please.”

Hesitantly, John backed up, helping him up. Dean didn’t look at him, just limped into the bathroom to begin the slow process of getting out of the stinking, sweaty clothes. It was   
painful, slow going, and as he slowly worked out of the jeans, he heard Sam say quietly, “Dad, he was just trying to protect me.”

He froze for a long moment, and in the silence, there was a ragged noise, like an inhaled sob. A door clicked closed again, there was a clink of glass-on-glass, and his heart broke as his father’s voice said, miserably, “I’m so sorry, Mary, I’m so, so sorry.” 

John’s voice cracked and broke, and he couldn’t bear it. Standing up, he hobbled over and yanked on the shower. Cold water spat out, as he shucked off the rest of his clothes he heard the bedroom door close more tightly, leaving John to his own devices. Sam was probably wisely barricading himself inside by now.

The water was almost scalding when he managed to get into the shower, and he all but groaned as it soothed some of the tension out of his shoulders.

Time to forget- even if it was just for a little bit.

/\/\

When he clambered out of the shower he barely bothered with a towel. He was stiff and sore and just wanted some sleep, some time to let his body sort out the bruises made by some ham-fisted jackass who couldn’t understand the concept of “breakable”.

After an intense personal debate with himself about how badly he wanted to scar Sammy for life (at 17 he wasn’t all that scarrable anymore, sadly) he dragged himself out of the room to do his nightly routine of checking salt lines and the locks on the door.

John was still at the table, and considerably more of the whiskey was gone. He looked up blearily as Dean shuffled about, towel clutched to his waist, and his face grew steadily darker.

“Who…who gave ya those?” He slurred a bit, nodding at the bruises.

“Just some guy who didn’t know the meaning of pain.” Dean thickened up one of the saltlines, and was about to head off into the bedroom when John got to his feet, heading for the door with grim intent on his face. Dean’s heart just about stopped.

“SAMMY!” He roared, grabbing his dad’s arm.

The door flew open and Sam scrambled over the barricade he’d put together to grab onto John. He might have been lithe for 17, but he was tall and used it to help Dean pull him into the chair again. 

“Dad, please, listen before you do something you’d regret,” Dean pleaded, and John snarled.

“If you go after him you’ll get in a fight. You get in a fight, the cops get called, the cops get called you tell them the guy beat on your son and the guy’ll say “oh he was whoring” and then Dean’ll get arrested, Dad,” Sam rattled off, looking intently at his father. “And then he’ll have a record that’ll be pretty hard to hide.”

That managed to settle John a bit, though he clearly wasn’t happy.

“No more of this,” he said, looking at Dean blearily. “No more of this shit, you got me?”

Dean swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

/\/\

He was half asleep on the couch, pajama pants thrown on and shirtless, when John said quietly, “There was a man I served under.”

This wasn’t exactly news, so Dean closed his eyes again and tried to ignore him. Sometimes, when he was drunk enough, war stories came out that were just too rough to listen in on, and he wasn’t all that excited about doing any more feeling sharing that night. It wasn’t something he ever looked forward too, but he was battered and stiff and just really, really didn’t want to hear it today. Tonight. Whatever.

“This guy…this guy, he was a Captain. Nasty thing, big on shoving bamboo slivers in people.”

Dean’s stomach roiled, and he wondered if there was a threat or a reassurance behind this story. It depended on the day as to which was actually more calming, the threat or reassurance. They lived in a messed up world, but he had grown to accept it, and he was fine with the insanity that was his life.

There was the low clink of glass on glass, and the slosh of liquid being poured. Dean’s nose twitched slightly at the increased smell of whiskey. It was familiar, a smell he’d long associated with his father and sadness, and he resisted the urge to go and curl up next to Sam, where it was safe and there wouldn’t be sad stories told. Sam was awkward and nerdy and fifteen kinds of unfortunate, but he wouldn’t judge if Dean ran to him to run away from Dad. It wasn’t something that happened often, but Sam wouldn’t be mad.

He was still considering it when John said, “I didn’t like that guy. He wanted too much from us, too much from terrified kids being picked off one by one in the jungle. It was hell and he wanted us to act like it was heaven, and we couldn’t.”

More clinking, and a gulp.

“So one day, we broke. All of us. We lost it, ripped camp apart, went completely insane. And somehow he decided to pin it on me, because I was the one he hated the most. I was the better shot, the one that questioned too many orders, and so he made me come into his tent, after everyone had been rounded up and handcuffed.” There was the familiar sound of a shot being taken, the faint hiss of exhaled breath. John continued, voice wavering a bit. “And so he said he’d make me a deal. The lives and honor of the men I called brothers if-”

His voice choked off, and Dean desperately didn’t want to hear this. This was too much, too personal, too terrifying a thing to know about his father, a secret the man had probably never admitted to another living soul outside of maybe his mother, and maybe not even her.

John cleared his throat harshly and said, “I took the deal.”

Dean closed his eyes tight, cringing a bit, and wanted to plead with his father to be quiet, to not talk about it, to not force himself to relive the past. He didn’t want to bring this on him, didn’t want to have to handle those memories coming back. It wasn’t fair to his dad to have to be reminded of them.

“I don’t regret it,” John continued, but his voice was even quieter. “But I screamed for days after if anyone came near me.”

There was the sound of a chair being pushed back from the wall, and John said quietly, “Go get in the other bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Dean rolled off and stood, avoiding his father’s eyes. He knew there would be tear tracks on his cheeks, and he couldn’t bear the thought of the beaten acceptance in his eyes.

“Thanks, dad,” he managed quietly, and clasped his father’s shoulder before retreating over the barricade into the bedroom.

/\/\

He breaks the promise he made two months later, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The man pays well, doesn’t give a name, and leaves him to be violently, brutally sick to the side of the road where he’s dumped out like so much trash.

The money goes to Sam’s prom.

He sleeps with Sam’s date in recompense.

Life goes on.


End file.
